Page 52 of Bedtime Stories
I stumble forward and fall into Keane’s arms, burying my face against his solid chest. His arms wrap around me instantly. His shirt smells of soap and the faintest trace of cologne, strong and simple, like him. I squeeze fistfuls of fabric, clinging tighter than I mean to.
“Easy, baby,” Keane murmurs against my hair. His voice rumbles through his chest, deep and low, grounding me. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
A sob shudders out of me before I can stop it. “I didn’t wanna drag you into this.” My words are muffled, shaky. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”
Keane tips my chin up with one big hand until I’m forced to meet his eyes. Calm. Certain. No hesitation.
“Nothing about you scares me, Oren.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Not your past. Not your mess. You hear me?”
I nod, throat tight, and whisper, “I didn’t know if you’d still want me.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, firm and sure. “Want you?” His laugh is soft. “Baby, I came running.”
And just like that, my whole body melts.
Keane’s gaze sweeps the room—cartoons still murmuring on the TV, the messy cocoon of blankets on the couch, my phone buzzing silently against the desk, desperate to be heard.
He steers me gently toward the couch, steady hand at the small of my back.
“Sit, baby.”
I sink into the nest, pulling the blanket over my lap like a shield. Keane crouches in front of me, his eyes searching and impossible to dodge.
“Tell Daddy what’s wrong.” His voice is calm, not demanding, but leaving no space for hiding either.
I shake my head, chewing my lip, heat creeping up my neck.
He reaches out and covers my fidgeting hands with his big ones.
“You don’t have to be brave right now. You just have to let me in.”
My chest squeezes. The buzzing phone rattles against the wood again, louder this time, and Keane’s eyes flick toward it. He doesn’t push. Just waits.
I swallow hard. My voice comes out tiny. “It’s… him.”
Keane’s jaw tightens, but his touch stays soft. “Vince?”
The name tastes like poison on my tongue, but I nod.
“Alright,” he says, low and even. “Then we deal with Vince. But first, we take care of you.”
The blanket suddenly feels too heavy, suffocating. I shove it down and blurt before I lose my nerve.
“He’s texting me. From some random number. I didn’t answer, but I know it’s him. The way he says things—like he knows me, like he owns me. As if I’ll just… crawl back if he snaps his fingers.”
My chest heaves. I can’t look at Keane, so I stare at the cartoon characters bouncing across the screen.
“He said I’d regret leaving. That nobody else would put up with me. That I’ll come running when you get tired of me, just like everyone else does.”
The words tumble out as jagged as broken glass. My throat burns.
“I thought I was past this, but I—I can’t stop hearing him in my head. And I hate it, Keane, I hate that he still gets in.”
There’s a pause, long enough that panic flares hot in my stomach. Then Keane’s hands are on my face, firm but gentle, tilting me to meet his eyes.
“You listen to me, Oren. That man doesn’t own you. He doesn’t get to define you. He doesn’t get to breathe your air unless you let him, and I know you’re stronger than that.”
His thumbs sweep across my cheeks, and only then do I realize I’m crying.
